To my enrainbowed eyes the trees are walking,
and the hawk is still as headland cliff.
What utter rapture at the end of stalking,
my dear Lord, now that I fly frozen stiff.
Each snowflake is a prism or a mirror
in a gallery of grimacing flame,
and every squealing self to You no dearer
than the birds that You hunt down for game.
You are, at last, a talon in the light
that clings in flight to a fear-stricken dove,
and I am the tears in the wake of fright
amid the falling feathers of our love.
Leo Yankevich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/frozen-stiff-2/
